


A Change of Seasons

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One phase of life ends, another begins.  Some things change, some things don't.  Everything else is up for interpretation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change of Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> 3rd installment of the "Tiger, Tiger" series. I did make references to one of Victor's origins in the comics. Bear in mind that I haven't read that much of him in the comics, so I'm sort of winging it/making it up as I go along. Thank you!

Graduation day arrives on a warm evening, at the turn of seasons when spring prepares to surrender its time to summer. There is a flurry of excitement in the dressing room, at a downtown Gotham auditorium. Soft clouds of perfume linger in the air; girls cluster together in front of the mirror, carefully applying the perfect shade of lipstick and making the final touches to their hair. Groups of two or three assist one another in fixing their caps and gowns, chatting and giggling with each other.

“Come along, girls! It’s time!” 

The summons is issued, and with a twittering gasp of nervous excitement, everyone hurries for the door in a parade of clicking heels and gowns rustling against gowns. Iris stays behind, takes a moment to linger and examine herself in the mirror. What she sees makes her sigh loudly. The sound is a little more dramatic than she normally likes, but at the moment, it feels appropriate.

Her hair has been pulled back, off her face, pinned to the point of discomfort, and fastened into a tight mass at the base of her neck. She doesn’t like it—the pins hurt, and the weight is already straining her neck muscles—but she knows it would be rude to try and change things because Mrs. Brown worked very hard on her hair and making everything look “perfect”. She and Mrs. Brown clearly have different ideas about what constitutes “perfection”. 

Even so, her fingers are itching to get rid of the pins, because they scratch and prick her scalp. But she wouldn’t know where to start. They feel layered, possibly even locked together, and she’d likely spend another four hours wrestling and wrangling with this mess before it was undone. Maybe it’s better to suffer in silence. The ceremony will be about three hours long, and if she thinks about something else—perhaps circulate some riddles from the morning paper through her head, or focus solely on the words coming from each speaker, or try to calculate the number of wires in the lighting system—maybe it won’t bother her as much.

“Iris, my sweet one,” Victor’s voice jolts her aware of his presence, and she turns quickly in place to find him leaning heavily against the doorframe with eyebrows raised high, wrinkling his otherwise smooth forehead, “ _what_ did you let them do to you?”

She feels herself blush, irrationally, then silently berates herself for it and clears her throat. “Mrs. Brown said this makes me look classy.”

“No, it makes you look ready to take vows at a convent.” He pushes himself off the frame and strides forward, happily ignoring the “Girls Only” sign hanging in plain sight on the door. She doesn’t have time to consider his next move, let alone read his face to take in what he might be thinking, before he’s standing in front of her and both hands are lifting to her hair. She feels her face flush again, irrationally, at his closeness and the way his eyes are carefully examining her and the fact that his hands are sliding around her face and into her hair. It bothers her, and confuses her. Other people touch her face and hair, from time to time. None of them ever make her feel this way. It doesn’t make sense that he should, could, make her feel…different.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, cursing her paleness and how apparent her blush must be right now. He obviously sees it, because he smirks, but he doesn’t say anything, not while his hands are working. It’s not until she feels the first curl fall against her neck that she finally understands.

He makes short work of what took Mrs. Brown three hours to accomplish, long fingers working skillfully and with graceful ease through the web—she wonders if he’s done this before, or what he could have done that would give him a frame of reference—and when he steps back and she can see herself in the mirror again, her dark curtain of thick curls is hanging loose and free down her back. The dull ache from a multitude of pins in her hair and against her scalp is gone, and she feels far more relaxed and at ease. And she looks like herself, which is an image she’s started to appreciate.

“There.” He says, stepping back to run his eyes over her, dragging his fingers through her hair one final time before bringing both hands back to his sides. He nods, satisfied. “Much better.”

She turns her attention back to him, though maybe it was never anywhere else to begin with. Her mind struggles for a moment, trying to remember what the proper protocol is for this gesture—should she smile, or be politely neutral, or something else?—before deciding she doesn’t have time to think, and so she must just act, and so she nods in turn, gives a tiny smile, and murmurs her thanks. Hasty, rushed, and far too impulsive. But it felt right, and her smile hasn’t quite faded as she darts out of the room.

She spends much of the ceremony lost in thought and paying absolutely no attention to the speakers. Her mind walks back through the entire affair, wondering what she could have done differently, or better, and so on. She’s sure she made a misstep somewhere, because if she had performed to expectations, she wouldn’t have this strange, irrational, completely unwarranted sensation in the lower depths of her stomach. It feels like a swarm of butterflies, wings fluttering frantically, leaving her feeling light and giddy—at least, she thinks that’s the right word for it _giddy_ —and she’s receiving more than a few strange looks, because the smile is still on her lips. Her facial muscles are starting to hurt, but every time she tries to drop the expression and look serious, dignified, and composed, she feels the soft warmth of her hair against a cheek or her neck, and then she feels his hands sliding through the curls as though it were the most natural thing to do. And the smile manages to come back, once again.

It makes no sense. None of it. She’s received physical attention before. Not the kind she once received from Maria, but from Mrs. Brown—on her more agreeable days—and from Dr. Leland, and from James. She’s had people stroke her hair, rest a gentle hand on her shoulder, and pat her cheek. She has finally gotten to the point where she no longer twitches or shifts away from an approaching hand, but instead sits still and allows the contact. There are studies about the physical and emotional benefits of physical contact, endorphin releases and such, and when she’d first read one of these studies, she’d known she was always going to be different. That she isn’t normal, isn’t the same as everyone else. Physical contact, even if she intellectually knows is meant to be affectionate and kind, is something she accepts for the sake of politeness and silently counts the seconds until it is over. Like getting a shot or taking medicine. Something she deals with because she has to, because it’s what everyone else does.

Except with Victor. Victor…is different. She sees his hands approach her and waits with eager anticipation for a palm to cup her head or fingers brushing her cheek, and the feel of his arm around her or the secure support of his body behind hers is soothing, calming, and reassuring. And it makes absolutely no sense. _He_ makes no sense and she’ll likely spend the rest of her life trying to understand him. She’s read books, research studies, and everything in between in vain attempt to put some semblance of logic to it all. Nothing has helped. Nothing has clarified the confusion. All she is left with—and somehow, strangely, it’s enough, time and time again—is the quiet whisper that it feels right, and she feels safe with him. Like a wild child lost in the jungle and brought up within the looming shadow of her tiger, caressed by his claws and kissed with his teeth just barely tucked beneath thin lips. Innocence raised and protected by Death.

Four hours later, when the ceremony is completed and everyone has finished speaking and the diplomas are all bestowed and excitement fills in the air in the form of shouts and joyous shrieks and delighted declarations, when she has received all the praises and congratulations and well-wishes she can handle, she slips off the stage, down the stairs, and through the doors into the back corridor. Earlier, it was used for their entrance into the auditorium. Now, it’s silent, save for muffled sounds audible from the adjacent rooms, and almost unoccupied. _Almost._

She lifts both hands to the zipper of her graduation gown, tugging down in a swift, fluid movement until the fabric finally hangs loose and free on her shoulders. She shrugs and it falls to the ground; her cap meets a similar fate, dropping atop the gown. She leaves it there. Someone will come along and pick it up, later.

From his place against the far wall, Victor’s eyes silently rove over what she’s exposed with the gown’s removal: black tights and heels with a dark turquoise dress that clutches politely at her slim curves and bares the tops of both shoulders. For reasons she cannot completely understand, she slowly turns in place, granting him a full view. She’s seen other girls do this, mostly for the inspection of their peers while waiting for approval or rejection, and at the time thought it strange and a little ridiculous. At the moment, she has no idea why she’s doing it, but the thin uplift to his mouth gives her gentle reassurance. He’s pleased. And that is all that matters.

She continues forward, the soft click of her heels echoing throughout the hall. Before she can think too much about it, she reaches out and slides her hand into his, fitting their fingers together. The cool metal of his rings brushes her bare skin, and she cocks her head curiously, examining them for a minute before looking back at him.

“Why do you wear these?” she murmurs, “You wear no other such adornments, but you are almost never without the rings.”

He shrugs. “I just do.”

No further explanation follows, and she shakes her head with a quiet sigh. “You,” she declares, “are a very strange man, Victor Zsasz.”

They spend several long hours in the park, sometimes walking, other times sitting, but always talking. Talking about many things, most of it trivial and randomly-selected, but some of it serious, like what path she’ll be plotting out throughout her college career and how she’ll handle being the youngest on campus. She expresses some concern over the older males who will be there, that she might catch unwanted attentions and is unsure how to deal with it, since she’s never had to before. He takes her hand and tells her, very seriously and with a look in his eyes that takes away any room for argument or protests, to not worry about it. 

A little while later, as they’re passing by a small pond, surrounded by posted lamps and a few benches—a lovers’ spot—she decides to pause and look at the water. She likes water. She likes its unpredictable properties, when it’s left untouched and unhandled by man. She likes watching when it is a still body, reflecting all that is above it and sometimes granting a peek into what lies beneath it. And she likes watching when it comes alive, rustled and aroused by the wind, splashing here and crashing there, untamed and free.

Tonight, the pond is untouched by the cool evening breeze, still and silent. On an impulse, she drops to her knees by the edge, hand outstretched, and sets her fingertips to the dark, glassy surface. When she pulls it back, the lamps show ripples, one set from each finger, pooling and spreading further and further, meshing together and becoming one. It would even more beautiful under a clear morning sky, she knows, but the lamps do their job well enough.

Victor’s hands settle on her upper arms, and he draws her against his chest. It’s a familiar position, and she thinks nothing of it, until his hands leave their position and instead both arms wrap securely around her. This is closer, more intimate, more than usual. She doesn’t know how to respond to this in the proper way; he hasn’t included this in their lessons. But she doesn’t dislike it. She can feel the steady murmur of his heart against her spine.

“If something _does_ happen,” his voice is very low, his lips resting lightly against her ear, “promise me you’ll tell me.”

“I promise.” It seems an illogical request, one that goes without saying. Of course she would tell him. She tells him almost everything. There are few things kept hidden between them. At least from her. He, on the other hand, is an ocean of secrets. One day, she hopes to be brave even, confident enough, and daring enough to leap into those dark waters and discover all that lies in wait for her.

He shifts forward and pulls her even closer. There is no space between them now; he feels so very warm, like she’s basking in the sun, and her hands subconsciously drift upward to curl around his arms, holding fast to him like a lifeline. She wonders if maybe she’s already swimming in that uncharted sea. Maybe she’s been there for much longer than she realized.

“If anyone does anything to you,” his voice lowers even more, and suddenly she remembers their first meeting, and he no longer feels like a fellow human, but a tiger—her tiger—with his powerful limbs drawing her close and his claws resting without threat on her skin and his teeth bared and his breath warm against her throat, “tell me. And I’ll take care of it.”

He doesn’t tell her how he’ll take care of it. She doesn’t ask. 

***

Freshman orientation at the university leaves something to be desired, on all fronts. She is indeed the youngest there, and is asked about fifty times within the first three hours which student is her older sibling, or if she’s the daughter of a professor. Eventually, she grows tired of answering the same question with the same answer, so she opts for a silent glare that, if nothing else, makes the offending individual shrink back with an expression that declares how very stupid they feel.

By the time she’s spent two hours touring the campus, participated for another two hours in the inappropriately-named “Ice Breaker Games”, baked for four consecutive hours in the sun, had lunch in the student center, and spent an uncomfortable hour in the office of her academic advisor who looks like he knows as much what to do with her as a shark would a silverware set, her charitable mood has faded and she would not be bereft to have no more human interaction for the next five weeks of her life. Maybe even five months.

She drags herself back to the dormitory, silently grateful that Dr. Leland consented to make the necessary negotiations and get extra funding for a private room. Sharing a room with a fellow female, likely at least four years her senior, possibly engaged in a romantic or at least physically intimate relationship, runs the risk of the room being overrun with gossiping co-eds and late-night rendezvous with paramours. She’d just as soon keep her will to live.

As she finishes her unpacking, putting the final touches on the desk and making sure all of her office supplies are in the proper order and location for Monday’s morning classes, a sharp rapping at her door nearly shoots her three feet in the air. She’s not usually so jumpy, but after a good four hours of silence, the intrusive sound is a little startling.

Her mussed, disheveled appearance isn’t really proper for greeting guests and visitors, but keeping them waiting would be rude. So, she pushes loose tendrils from her face, tries to smooth her braid and wrinkled clothes into some presentable state, and opens the door. Her eyebrows shoot up as she finds a blue-eyed stare on the other side.

“The hallway is secured with a lock.” She says, after a short pause. “How did you get in?”

“And hello to you.” Victor smirks, hardly looking put-off by her lacking cordiality, “It’s all about patience. You have patience, you can get in anywhere.”

 _Good to know_ , she thinks but doesn’t say. With a quiet sigh, she steps aside and grants him access. She vaguely recalls some rule about opposite gender visitors in the dormitories, after a certain time in the evening, but is fairly certain that rule was discussed by the time her ears had grown weary of listening and her mind had drifted off to a different region of known thought. Besides, she’d be lying to pretend his company wasn’t welcome right now.

As she closes and locks the door, he slowly spins in place, taking in her rather sparse décor and furniture placement, what little she actually has in here. Along one wall is her desk and small file cabinet; the other wall hosts her bed, which took her about two hours to dismantle from a loft to normal placement; the other two are a two-closet wardrobe and the entrance to her private bathroom. Her desk is the most adorned piece of furniture; two stacks of notebooks, a pen holder and a pencil holder, and other assorted items. The walls, by contrast, are naked; no photographs, no posters or wall decorations, nothing but bare brick.

“You’re working a consistent theme, Iris.” He says, eyebrow raised and a smirk still playing on his lips. 

She rolls her eyes, shrugs lightly, and begins to make her way to the bathroom, fingers unbraiding her hair with a few quick motions. “You have been inside my house, Victor.” She says, carding fingers through the mussed curls. “Did you see any photographs which should be mounted on proud display in this room?”

“None where you three look happy to be in the same room as each other.” He says, dryly; she can see him casting another look around, from her bathroom mirror, before she closes the door and slips into the shower. “I think I saw one picture where your mother was contemplating murder.”

“She did that on a regular basis.” Her voice is muffled, probably, with the bathroom door locked and the water running, but she at least tries to keep it distinct and loud enough that he can still hear her. “When I was six, she broke one of her compact mirrors into little pieces and slipped it into Marcus’ coffee.”

She hears him make a sound that resembles a chuckle; _resembles_ , because she’s never actually heard him laugh and isn’t completely certain he is capable of doing so. “Sounds like a pleasant trip to the emergency room.”

 _Pleasant trip indeed_ ; when he was finally released from Intensive Care, she remembers quite vividly how Marcus had kicked Maria out of the house, and had only taken her back when he’d run out of lady friends to utilize and Maria had been unable to secure a new husband from her own collection of available prospects.

“Maybe you should take up art.” Victor adds after a short pause; she can hear him pacing idly around the room while she finishes her shower. “At least it would put some color in here.”

“Your interest in my decorations is flattering.” She returns, twisting the water dial off and grabbing her towel. “Somehow, I have a feeling your walls are equally bare and devoid of any character.”

“Takes too long to put up and take down.” He says, quite seriously, “And time is everything.”

“Indeed,” she steps out of the bathroom in a full-length robe, dark-colored, running a comb through her wet hair; his eyes linger for an extended minute over the portrait, and suddenly she loses her train of thought, feeling the heat of his gaze even with the modest slivers of skin left exposed, before reclaiming the thought, “Too much for the impatient and never enough for the rest.”

The knock on her door interrupts his intended response; without a word and even less noise, he steps back to the wall, near the closet doors, and, meeting her questioning stare, jerks his head in silent instruction. After she disappears around the short corner, opens the door, and offers a quiet greeting, he hears the voice of another girl, asking if Iris is all “settled in” and then, in the next breath, forgoes pleasantries and asks if there’s someone else in here with Iris.

“No,” she answers, her tone perfectly neutral and calm. It’s the first time she’s actually lied, with words, and his mouth lifts in a thin smile.

“I heard you talking to someone.” The other girl replies; this one is nosy to a fault, and would deserve a good lesson in manners, particularly with the snarky little tone she’s using.

“Of course you did.” Iris says. “Myself.”

“Yourself?”

“I often talk to myself, yes.” She continues, and _oh_ , he couldn’t be more proud right now. Perfect tone, perfect response, flawless execution all around. “I find I answer many questions when I consult my own intellect and wisdom.”

To that, the other girl has no proper response, as demonstrated by her hasty farewell and departure. Iris closes the door without further incident, locks it again, and steps back around the corner to meet his broad grin and amused stare.

“You, sweet girl,” he reaches out, cupping her face between his hands, and kisses her forehead, twice, “do me proud.”

She gives a content sigh, fingers brushing over his wrists for a pleasant moment, then finishes combing her hair before twisting the dark mass once more into a thick braid. He lets her get dressed in something more comfortable—dark cotton pants and an overlarge shirt that were most certainly borrowed from the group home…she needs new clothes—and they spend the rest of the evening continuing their conversation about art, which leads into a trip down memory lane, for both of them. By the time the hour is exceptionally late, he has learned even more about her parents’ exploits with one another, and it is truly a wonder that Iris is not currently housed in Arkham Asylum as its youngest patient.

Then, she surprises him. With delicate grace, she shifts her position from leaning against the wall and drawing closer, nearer to his side, and then, without a word or hint of her intentions, lowers herself to stretch out along the mattress, mussing the bedcovers a bit in the process, and settles her head atop his thigh. There is a short pause while he regains control over his lungs, because they decided to stifle and suffocate themselves at her sudden nearness and the soft weight of her head, and finally he’s able to release a careful exhale. His fingers slip into the dark locks, running lazy paths through wet strands as best he can, and she looks incredibly content.

“Will you tell me about your parents, my tiger?” she murmurs, after a few minutes of silence. Her eyes are attentive on his face, gaze eager and imploring, and his instinctive response to deny her request fades rather quickly. Maybe too quickly. It makes him worry that he’s going soft.

Then again, perhaps not. He’s not exactly establishing a pattern of refusing her these days. Even with as unexpected a request as this.

He continues stroking her hair, eyes ever attentive on the peaceful expression across her face and the way she relaxes more and more beneath his touch. After another bout of silence, he begins to talk. He tells her about his mother, her pretty smile and gentle touch and soft laughter. He tells her about his father, the astute businessman with a keen mind and considerable wealth, but always with time for the family and for his son. He tells her about a childhood filled with happiness and kindness, about a youth with everything a child could possibly want, including if not most especially his parents’ love and devotion.

She lies there in silence for a few minutes more, contemplating and thinking and absorbing all he’s said. And then, very quietly, she whispers another question. “What happened to them?”

This question is expected; he’s spoken in past-tense the entire time and her ears would have been quick to pick up on something like that, and to identify the unsaid implications. He also knows he could refuse her this answer, but it would be irrational and illogical. He’s already told her far more than he’s ever told anyone else in his life; what’s one more bit of truth to add?

“Every year, they went out on the boat.” He says, matching her tone. “And every year, they came back, safe and sound.”

He pauses then, hand stilling in its motions for only a moment. It’s apparently enough of a pause for her to respond, reaching up and catching his hand in hers, entwining their fingers and bringing it back down to rest at her stomach. It’s one of the few times she initiates the contact, and especially when she’s already in a more…intimate position than usual. He’s a little unnerved that he can’t read her as easily as usual, can’t quite note her thoughts and intentions in the pale gaze holding his own. And yet…maybe he does.

“And then, one year,” he slowly finishes, “they didn’t come back.”

She holds his gaze more intently than usual; he can feel her thumb brushing slowly over his knuckles, gliding across the rings from time to time. “They loved you.”

It’s a statement more than anything, but he answers anyway. “Yes.”

“And you loved them.”

“Very much.” He watches, very interested in the way she’s still caressing his fingers, and in the way she’s dropped her eyes from his to their joined hands. Like she’s studying them. He really would like to know what she thinks about, when she looks at his hands that way.

Slowly, she shifts her hand, twisting the wrist just so that her palm rests flat to his and her fingers align with his. His are still a bit larger, broader, but her fingers are equally long. She has very lovely hands, slender and graceful and thin, and soft. Very soft. They feel like silk against his palm. And he wonders how they would feel elsewhere, running along his arms and chest and—

“What is it like?” she whispers again, and it’s a much-needed interruption before his imagination goes venturing into dangerous territory. “To be loved?”

It sounds like the sort of question she might ask her therapist, or some caring type who would pull her close and pet her hair and devote all manner of affection as a response. But she’s asking _him_ , only him, and it’s rather touching.

“It’s very pleasant.” He answers, after a thoughtful pause. “It makes you feel safe, protected at all times. It lets you knows there’s someone you can always return to, no matter how ugly the world might be at times.”

Silence again, much longer this time, and then, her tone notably lower, “And what is it like to love?"

He thinks about it for a minute or two, then shrugs lightly. “There isn’t a word for it. You can only understand it once you’ve felt it.”

“Please try, my tiger.” Iris tips her head back, gaze pleading just like her tone. “Try to explain it. I will never know what it means to love someone, but I would like to understand how it feels, even just a little bit.”

He decides to play the nurturing type, just for a minute. “You don’t know that, Iris. You might find someone to love.”

“No, I will not.” She says, unmoved and looking rather unimpressed. “In order to be able to _love_ , one must first _be loved_. I do not know what this means. I was never loved, therefore I will never love.”

“There are no absolutes in life, Iris.” The words probably sound sweet enough, but his gaze is sharp and take away from what would otherwise be a touching moment. “Not even for you. And I don’t want to hear that word out of you again, do you understand?”

She exhales slowly, nods, and lets her fingers slip down between his until their palms are pressed close together. There’s a moment when he thinks the conversation is done, and she’ll move on to a different topic or just let herself fade away to sleep after the long day she’s had. But, once again, she surprises him, and in a way he definitely wasn’t expecting. 

“Could _you_ love me, my tiger?”

It doesn’t take long for him to think of a response, even as surprised as he is by the question. He does, at least, still have his instincts to utilize, when all else fails. And this time, he abides by them, albeit a little more gently than he otherwise might. There’s no need to snap at her and punish curiosity, not when it could potentially have damaging effects and ruin all his hard work.

He kisses her forehead for a long beat, then pulls back with a low whisper, “Go to sleep, sweet girl.” 

She doesn’t press the matter, which pleases him. Instead, she simply falls silent again and closes her eyes and eventually succumbs to exhaustion. He stays for a little while, after he’s tucked her beneath the covers and watched her, with amusement, curl into a small shape and burrow deeper into her sheets, standing at her window and looking out to the late-night activities below. There is a young man and young woman, just below Iris’ room, currently engaged in behavior that, he’s fairly certain, violates certain public decency laws. It’s crude, sloppy, and vulgar in ways that make even him cringe and look away.

His gaze returns to Iris, to her fragile and delicate shape, the peaceful expression on her face, the way she looks very young and innocent and so much like a lamb tossed in the lions’ den. And as he sets a hand to her pale brow, fingers brushing the dark curls aside, he has an unfortunate feeling that it won’t be long before one of the lions breaks free and makes its move.


End file.
